ISSN 1480-6401

INTRODUCTION
Ernest Slyman
Ghost Story
CONTENTS
Michael Lee Johnson
Electric in the Sun
Hookers on Archer Avenue
Indolent Sun
California Summer
Jason A Wilkinson
Soapstone Paramours
She
Take Life By The Nut-Sack
Dutch Schultz Bobblehead
Call My Name Through The Fallen Square
Aristotle Sinclair
Better, Much
Conversational Topics Withdrawn
as a Mourning Mother Explicates Want
Delusions of the Already Diluted Differences
Solitary
Unaccompanied Before the Act of Finality
Variant
G David Schwartz
In The Time Of Mathematics
I Fell Down The Steps
What Are They Thinking
Joseph Farley
ashlar – n.
caved or finished stone, masonry
thin squares stone used as outer facing of a wall of rubble
diadromous – capable of living in both fresh and salt water or migrating between
Emesis – n. vomiting; vomit
glockenspiel - n. A percussion instrument with metal
bars tuned to the chromatic scale and played with hammers
30th St Station
THUMBING TO BOSTON
GRANMOTHER'S GUEST ROOM
SUICIDE
For A Sunrise
WATER COLOR
THE SPRING RIVER
Geese
Souvenir
POST SCRIPTUM
Ernest Slyman
Philip Larkin

Ernest Slyman
Ghost Story
~~~~~~~~~~~
J opened an old book
I'd found on the train.
The first sentence
was full of shadows
that moved in circles,
spooky like an old haunted house.
It had many well-lit rooms.
One walked from room in room
in search of a long-deceased relative.
Who among us hasn't gazed
down the long, dark corridor
of a sentence and observed
even in the shortest words
the fiery face of God?
There were beds to lie down on.
There were desks
cluttered with scribbled notes
and historic photos on the walls.
On antique tables,
there were peppermints
and jellybeans in red and blue jars.
A bowl of apples on a dining room table.
A fox terrier barked upstairs,
chased a red rubber ball
from verb to noun
to adjective to adverb.
A Siamese cat
curled up in a rocking chair,
purred, yawned, swished its tail
as though to welcome the spirits.
The air of a sentence
was always scented
with a freshly baked cherry pie.
A housefly buzzed
around a pale blue kitchen
and a half-eaten peanut butter
and jelly sandwich
dozed in the right coat pocket
of a child's sports jacket.
The sound of a piano, a flute,
an accordion could be heard
downstairs in the basement,
where not everyone thought to look.
A drawer in the dining room
full of silver knives, forks and spoons
shimmered with the eyes
of prophets.
A wall clock in the hallway
told a lie at noon.
At one o'clock
it opened a book
and read a children's story.
At midnight,
it walked slowly
on its hands
into the baby's room
and shook the crib.
The baby burst out
with amazing things,
if only we could understand.
There was always
the old broken wristwatch's cry
in the attic.
Or the blissful murmurs
that words make
when awakened
like the dead.
Only words knew
the fire that burned
and secretly
leaped out
and swallowed
you when it reached
the bottom of a period
The great pit into which
all readers plummet
wearing eyeglasses,
falling, falling
down, down, down.
Though many
grasp the corner
of a page and hang on.
That lifeline
which seems so securely
fastened.
Only to have it slip
from their grasp
and send them
falling, falling
into the period.
The terrible pit,
the deep, deep hole
at the end of every sentence,
where bats flew about,
flapping their wings
against bloody walls,
where spiders
gazed upward at the moon,
and old men with hatchets,
waiting in the dark,
stood ready
for the beheading.

Michael Lee Johnson
Electric in the Sun
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m electric in the spring sun
nomad in the summer dust
my lantern burns
without fuel,
I lie in the deep grass
with microphones tossed
over my ears-
and feel like I’m on a high-
psychedelic
blue-green grass
pink sunglasses in my left hand,
teeth pearly white ivory tusks,
muscle tee shirt, with brown sash
from shoulder to hip,
crazy beads around my neck
yellow-orange shaped like
candy corn-
life is but a blitz,
I’m electric in the sun,
and there is no cell phone
by my side.
-2008-
Hookers on Archer Avenue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Late evening, early morning,
I search the night for whores,
young and bloody with desires.
The night streets are silent streets
accept for the hookers and the Johns.
One wants the pushing of groins
the other green eyes in dollar bills
are sacred treasures-
the snatch of the wallet, a consecrated craft.
Both hit the streets quickly
satisfy the needs quickly
finish in different directions quickly.
I’m an old buck now rich with memories
more than movement, talking the trash,
taking the porn pictures,
peeking Tom expert with a naked eye,
snooping around department store
corners, and dumpy old alleyways.
My hair is gray, my teeth eroding,
my thoughts leaning toward prayer
A.M. Catholic mass,
finishing off the early morning
with a lethargic walk
to pick up my social security check-
comforts my needs.
-2008-
Indolent Sun
~~~~~~~~~~~~
In early March
an indolent sun
persists in tossing
volunteer rays of
soft flickering sun silk
through dark desolate
willow tree branches-
melting remnants
of snow diamond crystals
from weathered wooden planks
on my balcony.
I’m starting to think life
is an adjective exaggerated
by the sway of seasons.
It’s normal feeding time.
Below two floors
wild Canadian geese
wait impatiently
for the tossing of morning feed;
the silent sound they hear-
no dropping of the seed.
-2008-
California Summer
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coastal warm breeze
off Santa Monica, California
the sun turns salt
shaker upside down
and it rains white smog, humid mist.
No thunder, no lightening,
nothing else to do
except sashay
forward into liquid
and swim
into eternal days
like this.
-2008-
Jason A Wilkinson
Soapstone Paramours
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She bored a thin hole
in my sedan chair
leaving the silt of forlorn pleasures
in want of sweeping;
the portraits
crooked on their nails
A calypso ballad dangles
from the stereo
wafting its tenuous pulsations
where silent dance
once pinioned shadows
amid tapestry and rug
incense and soapstone
-paramours fused in maudlin grace
The laminated Saracen
discloses an unbecoming physiognomy
from its paper tumulus
beckoning me to Florence
and the vigorous dialectic of Savonarola
chiding the resolve of my study
with taciturn derision
Night-birds crowd the lonesome tree outside,
plaintively musing
the fall of our twilit sentinels
Oft have I heard them
whisper beyond the sill
their gossamer vestments
camouflaged succinctly
under a jade carapace
Though here must I find reverie burthensome
and mephitic
where fixtures became truncated
in the softening lights
so that even my lone steps drifted
among the jigsaw of flown days.
She
~~~
Found words
drew a line
through the vacuum
retracing that isolated framework
with neon gel
Though it is said
that her voice can sear
tracks in the Universe
under glass
waves broken
numerals on a smudged cloth
practice my heart
to chime like terpsichorean bells
Gilt sleeves of tapered jade
blind me in an unhewn summer field
Verdant stiles
between them patching
the cloth of our wingless flight
Paring the down
Where fair skies
drove us from shelter
cavernous, teakwood eyes
piece me together
in the attenuated lamplight
Transistor flickering like a distant candle
through the matrix of wild
flora beyond her impossible smile
Valhalla glimmered tangentially
chained-up counting
the footsteps to Eden.
Take Life By The Nut-Sack
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And run with it until the putrefied bits slip
through your fingers
causing infections to spread
like gossip over them
staining your clothes
Run with it until it dries in your hands
though it were no more than powder
and the hair upon that scrotum
has desiccated beyond recognition
Until you no more notice the stench of it
than that of a dead fly
entombed beneath the azaleas
and pedestrians are obliged to wear protective gear
lest you should contaminate them unawares
Run with the precious nickel bag
twisting every last demand from its host
-bury your nails in supple flesh
if only to exact more and more
Take Life by the nut-sack and wear it on a chain
next to the promise rings and that fake shark tooth
your uncle Dougie swore came from ’a big one’
he caught off the coast of Jamaica last spring
Take Life by the nut-sack and treat it like a prostitute
dragging it through the streets
at the ends of frayed tethers
Use its head for a battering ram
against hard-to-open doors
Take Life by the nut-sack without compunction
or delusion
or the occasional hangover
Take Life by the nuts
and unto those testes
do what Conscience dictates
must be inflicted upon no other.
Dutch Schultz Bobblehead
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I crane my neck
stealing fragments
of the rubber song
pinioned, obeisant lamps
masticate cigar plumes
-time immemorial
consciousness is revisited
on the floor mat
in a lukewarm Black Russian
glasses
pale skin
The dance floor is naked
planks along a broken hall
voices muffled
soporifically to refrain
This is a tennis ball silencer
dropped among excrescent
coppice verdure melting
there without ceremony
lawnmowers graze menacingly
between the heavy stones
Rosewater Braille
taunts the air
;peregrine incense
receding unnoticed
liquids
I limp from the dashboard
exhibiting amid other qualities
of less obvious repute
a propensity to roll
under the seats
where churchyard plastic
bathes my corpulent
skull with music.
Call My Name Through The Fallen Square
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Where quietude is manic
hail me
through iron-clad forests
past vagabond mansions
Let your voice
echo among those solemn relics
Kneel down along a fetid brook;
there rivulets simper
but do not flow
-whose black metal skin
glimmers indifferently
among palsied flowers
Look for me
neath the upturned flame
the misplaced extremity
Bent pike heads
loiter in dejected clusters
as if in speechless commune
over the workless days ahead
Faded placards
lean helplessly
above them
hiding
in a memory
Call me through the middling haze
its lingering engagement
beyond quondam parvenus
the ether is hemlock
Feel me in the closing requiem
of Jupiter and Narcissus
guiding
like a faraway excrescence
Touch me
until the pall catches fire.
Aristotle Sinclair
Better, Much
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I appear to be underwater.
Life is blurry with blueness
of prevalent persons.
While on land, a legend named
this depression. Underwater
sadness is a forgiven exhibition.
Underwater, I see surface apparitions
drawing against shadows dissolving
before adequate recognition.
My heart’s music is much calmer.
On land my heart’s concerts drew
crowds of disconcerted pleasure.
Underwater, though the land of
my past cannot be ascertained,
I am a freedom of existence
untouched by the language of persecuting
control.
Conversational Topics Withdrawn
as a Mourning Mother Explicates Want
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We talked about the willow’s
varied timetable of weeping
into wind’s scathing scold, unheard.
Ornamental tears dangle on
intersecting arms of fabricated
bird homes.
Willow’s reaction as such,
as much a complexity
as is simplicity, creating intellectual slaves
running free within borders of classroom
discussions.
We talked about the moon’s pouting.
Her face, half covered
condemned life’s strategies to create tragedies
made into cinematic duplicates.
We discussed and drank generic white wine.
Its unlabeled body enhanced by
contours cultivating yen to touch, caress
the fizz entering path of tongue into
hoarding throat.
We discussed patterns of birth within death.
Then, near a lake’s constant return, a mother cried
within a shrieking burn, wailing a reenacting
want to rebirth son’s drawn out dawn.
Delusions of the Already Diluted Differences
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ophelia lied still,
her silent death
floating
among scents of absolute
aliveness. Dichotomy
is much more complex
than of distance
shouting
towards nearness’ copacetic
ease. Much more
multifarious
as day’s commencing heat
hovering
behind night’s achromatic
opaque curtain of obscenest
obesity.
Solitary
~~~~~~~~
Tonight I write in darkness
interrupted
only by the light
of my mind’s consideration.
Fallen all around me
are the darkened webs
of darkness’ dangling threads.
I wonder “who mends
such a thick and warm womb
satisfying my need for lonely
adoration?” No one answers me.
My screen the only brand
of elastic light
wrapping into a bend
around my answerless query.
Unaccompanied Before the Act of Finality
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alone
I am ready to
die.
My old age has unfolded
all possible attire, and now I
appear
uncovered.
My breaths on the short leash
of
derisory control.
Alone
I
no longer communicate
with
another’s brand of
logical speech.
Now, ready,
my home undresses
an act to control
semblance of normalcy:
yes, a physical echo
allowing my body
to live beyond recognition,
long within the subsequent
of my corporeal absence.
Variant
~~~~~~~
The glass’ shatter, beautiful.
Its jade shimmers like a thigh of
moon’s tiptoeing light
across the supple floor of a lake’s
enigmatic ballroom.
Many believe shattered accommodates
a definition of death.
This assertion, untrue, characteristic
of language spread to cradle falsities
prevailing under certainty.
The green glass’ shatter was dedication.
Its body, now a neoteric brand of whole,
sends glow in direction of newness
uncontrolled by feasible contours,
au courant reassurance.
G David Schwartz
In The Time Of Mathematics
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the time of mathematics
If you think like me
Your be looking for a window
From which to escape to the sea
And if you go swimming
You may know for sure
There’s no need for refection
Or any math on the floor
So if you desire
To be a friend with me
You can take mathematics
And spin it to the sea
I Fell Down The Steps
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I fell down the steps
And I fell down the well
But the best fall I ever had
Was when for you I fell
I slipped into puddles
And slipped in conversation
And just my imagination
Caused the complication
So I plumed through the apple orchard
And developed my way to slip
And fall in love with you
That’s what I wanted to do
When I slipped down the stairs
And landed on my bum
Feeling a bit more pain
Than being felling so dumb
What Are They Thinking
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What are they thinking?
Why o they drink so much wine
And why on earth do they send balloons
All across the world
And just what are they thinking
With their luffin cup
I sure hope I spelt that right
So the reader knows what
I am trying to say
Because if they know
What I am trying
To say I think
They will know what I am thinking
Joseph Farley
ashlar – n.
caved or finished stone, masonry
thin squares stone used as outer facing of a wall of rubble
carve your words well
to cover the truth,
a thin layer of sense
to conceal the greater lie.
behind smiles and bright talk
depravity and despair
are hidden from view.
Potemkin would approve.
all praise the illusion
as cable and television
spins its pinwheel
to distract us with its colors.
diadromous – capable of living in both fresh and salt water or migrating between
moving between
office and home
two separate worlds
with different rules
fish swimming
against the current
make little headway
just go along
for the ride
Emesis – n. vomiting; vomit
feelings well up inside
banging against your skin
poking prodding begging
to be released on paper
you hold off as long as you can
but it comes
another mess
to be cleaned up later.
glockenspiel - n. A percussion instrument with metal
bars tuned to the chromatic scale and played with hammers
when you hold a Glock
you don't have to say much
but people tend to know
what you want
30th St Station
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my dead father
is heading for
the Trenton West
I see him
selling flowers
on the other side;
I hug my paper,
know the shadows
change with each train.
THUMBING TO BOSTON
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I didn't expect
to hear his life story:
his wife and lover,
racing across three states
to visit each
on weekends.
eighty was low speed,
Connecticut, a blur.
he'd have talked,
not seeing the road,
clear to the Canadian border,
if not for the sirens
calling him to stop.
GRANMOTHER'S GUEST ROOM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's thirteen years
since the room
was last painted.
Blue walls
retreat
before the roller.
White erases
a child's hand prints
but a small boy
still haunts the room
dripping latex
on the furniture.
SUICIDE
~~~~~~~
I don't mind
that he jumped
but why
did he do it
at rush hour,
back up
the trains
for thirty
minutes,
make me
suffocate
between stations
all that time.
I don't mind
that he jumped,
only wish
he'd found
a better way
or picked
a later train.
For A Sunrise
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
it was something,
colors
bursting
over
the horizon,
Fourth of July
without the noise,
but startling enough
to make ears ring
with the silence.
WATER COLOR
~~~~~~~~~~~
fish bones
in a dry
river bed,
cracked
yellow clay
shines
like rock
in the sun's
heat,
mountains:
purple shadows
on the horizon,
gray streak
overhead:
clouds.
the rain
comes slowly,
drops fall,
healing fingers
touch the eyes
of the land.
THE SPRING RIVER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the spring river
becomes warm
and the ducks
know it first
soon the reeds
sound with voices,
parents tend
floating broods
the pike snaps
at the surface,
raccoons prowl
muddy shores
yet the cycle
will continue
as air cools;
fills with wings
Geese
~~~~~
fly at night
beat their wings
against the stars,
an arrow
heading north,
sharp
past the moon.
autumn comes,
you must depart.
again the rivers
will grow warm,
I will wait
through the cold
with open arms.
Souvenir
~~~~~~~~
"my native town
and in a borrowed bed:
migrating birds."
Mukai Kyorai
the man who returns
after many years' absence
returns a stranger.
even these few months
are on my face,
you will see them
when you greet me,
your house
will grow
too small,
and your nights
will be troubled
with dreams.

Ernest Slyman
Philip Larkin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who am I to say demagoguery
has hurt my reputation?
No more of less derogatory
than my current situation.
The newspapers said I died in bed.
A reviewer said I fell and hit my head
at Westminster Abbey.
The thing that keeps me at it.
That is not my habit,
gnaws at my brain,
drives me insane
is the shame
that accompanies
my illustrious fame.
Join the debate.
Procreate.
Consume the meal.
Listen to the mouse squeal.
Turn fiction into fact,
as stone into bread,
as water into wine.
Give my skull a crack.
Who wants to lose your hair
or turn a circle into a square?
Is it not fair? Are we not laid bare
in the grave. Now the snails
love me for who I am.
They nibble at my coattails,
and the critics poke at my bones,
the good ones crawl into my grave.
I have slept in many jails.
I once dated a Welsh acrobat.
How indiscreet. Ask biographical details.
Trim the fat. Pet the cat.
Have the decency to remove your hat.
I have eaten rat tails.
The best, indeed the only source
of truth is the hank of hair
curled round my skull.
I am Britain's golden boy,
their naughty nightmare.
Sorrow was my greatest joy.
I visited graveyards
since I was a small boy.
A rather unpleasant
very small and diminishing
boy I remained.
My great innovation
was an intellect.
A genius I was entrusted
with the task -
largely, I suspect,
of composing the queer, mean thoughts
of my own shy generation.
I heard the clock by the dresser cry out.
Write of small things. Be very quiet, tame.
Eat your fill of shame.
Play the wicked Poet's game.
Always whisper, never shout.
Fill all believers up
with dread and doubt,
and everyone
will remember your name.
Produce a slight feeling
numb in the head,
of monotony and repetitiousness,
of misogyny, speak ill of wife
who took her life.
I shall cover the spread,
make friends with the dead,
until almost the end of my life -
led by strange, cosmic melancholy
from which flashed of more melancholy,
angst scented with sour bread,
and shall then and only then
strike my head again and again
upon the stone hard surface
of my fame.
I came to life
at my writing desk--
the sordid monster
with a gift to molest.
I was the fat goose my mother fed.
What was the first book
of poetry I read ?
It provoked me to wet the bed,
In the first girlie magazine I read
I saw God's face turn red.
I became an evil teddy bear.
To every reader I gave a scare,
I spat upon the walk
of the Royal Garden,
I was jeered.
I was bizarre. I was feared.
In the newspaper,
it was alleged
I sat down in an electric chair,
my hair stood
straight up in the air.
People scattered everywhere.
I was the wicked poet
who cast his spell
on England and rang my poems
like a giant bell in Trafalgar Square,
so beastly and sublime
I kissed the gates of Hell
with each poem I wrote.
In the grave, I am middle-aged,
yet not quite reached my prime,
I write better poetry in my sleep
than most of generation.
But then who am I to judge.
I am the genius that bears the grudge
against humanity.
I deplore their condemnation
of my insanity.
Take from me my vanity.
My critics scold me with their profanity.
I am the one who they hate.
Let us debate. Who am I? Am I great?
My bones lie on your plate.
A piece of paper is my soul.
I am as talented as a toilet bowl.
I am asked
carefully crafted questions
even in my grave.
I don't know the answers.
I murmur: "I need a shave."
I am stalked like a wild deer.
It is the poem that I fear
most. It will kill me
if I don't write it.
I rise from the grave to defend my life.
My pen is a dull knife.
I drink liquor to think more clearly.
I stink of bad poetry
written in a dull age.
I smell a rat.
I am bloated. My head is fat.
On all humanity, I frown.
I wear an old hat,
let all dip into the page
and drown.
I am not overcome with shyness.
Even in death I'm an exhibitionist.
I am celebrated on seven continents.
I am large.
About seven miles tall,
I loathed my country. Let it fall.
I loathed women with large breasts
and long, flowing hair.
I love their lips
when they recite my poetry.
Only half in jest,
My posthumous work
runs solid, uncomplicated, first-rate
I write a poem every week.
Excellent for a deceased poet.
Don't call me late.
I love reading my obituaries.
I sit on my back in my casket.
I devour them like raspberries
picked by a naughty child
and dropped into a basket.
I wore flashy clothes.
I wore a red ball on my nose.
Now gone are my toes.
If I return, I promise
to write only prose.
I have ambition,
even in the grave.
Hang my poems in the Louvre.
I would write more,
I would write better
if I could move.
On all humanity, I frown.
let all dip into the page
and drown.

All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2010 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net